


Lost to February

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-03
Updated: 2008-03-03
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's freezing and he needs the Master, warm and alive, needs as much of him as he can touch, because nothing feels real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost to February

**Author's Note:**

> Written for smithy161, who asked for _Ten/Ainley!Master, with the prompt: "Thought you burned, not froze for your sins/Oh, I'm so tired, and cold"_
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

He's so far beyond exhausted that he doesn't remember anything else, and he can't feel a damned thing. Not elation at saving the Earth from atomic destruction, not regret for the ones he couldn't save. There's still a gaping hole where Gallifrey used to be, and it still aches, though even that seems distant. His hands are clumsy on the TARDIS controls, and he knows what a bad idea this is, but he's doing it anyway. 

He stumbles into the Master's TARDIS and the Master looks up from the console, surprised and suspicious. He looks as if he's about to say something cutting when the Doctor sways on his feet and the Master's there suddenly, steadying him, suspicion warring with concern in his eyes. He's about to ask what's happened, the Doctor knows that, and he can't face that question now, can't face any questions, so he pulls the Master in and kisses him. He can almost feel the _have you lost your mind?_ before the Master relaxes enough to respond to the kiss.

He shivers as the Master pulls him in closer; the velvet feels so much warmer than his own skin. The Master pulls away a little at that, and it's all the Doctor can do not to hang onto him; he's got that much pride left, at least. But not much more. The Master's looking at him, really looking, in a way he hasn't in centuries and he needs that, needs someone who knows him that well. The Doctor shivers again, enough that it's an effort to keep his teeth from chattering, and fights the urge to press close to him, to hold him as tightly as he'd held his later incarnation while he died.

The Master studies him for another instant and then leads him further into the TARDIS, through turns the Doctor doesn’t even try to memorize, into his bedroom, into his bed. 

He's freezing and he needs the Master, warm and alive, needs as much of him as he can touch, because nothing feels real. He reaches up and starts clumsily unfastening the Master's shirt, but the Master pushes his hands away, more gently than he expects, and does it himself. Then he starts on the Doctor's suit jacket, but he doesn't take his eyes off the Doctor's face. He's trying to read whatever calamity has brought him here, but he doesn't ask, doesn't say anything, in fact, just unfastens buttons until he gets to skin, and at that point, the Doctor can't keep his hands off him any longer. Pulls him down, runs his hands over the expanse of his back, kisses whatever he can reach, the Master's mouth, collarbone, shoulder, doesn't matter, and the Master has a hand in his hair and the other spread across his chest, holding him still, grounding him, watching him. He feels as if his blood is pumping for the first time since he put the Master's body on the funeral pyre to burn, and he's warming up now, not quite warm enough, but better.

"Stubborn bastard," he mutters, desperation and affection mingled in it, and the Master laughs, low and warm, and tells him that he's not the only one. Now that the Doctor's spoken it's hard to stop, but he doesn't want the litany of the dead between them now, he wants to be alive and be glad he's alive, and to be as close as he can to this version of the Master, who fights death with everything he has.


End file.
